Preface: Before arriving in India, I hadn’t put much thought into an exact itinerary. I just knew that I wanted to have my senses overwhelmed, tap into mind blowing experiences and eat lots of fresh curry. In my ambitious day dreaming, which included possible detours through Central Asia to China and across the Strait of Hormuz to the Arabian Peninsula, I hadn’t really contemplated visiting Kashmir. It was my Dad who planted the seed. We chatted over Skype while I was stuck in Lahore recovering from food poisoning. He asked me if I had considered skiing in Gulmarg. ‘No,’ was my response. ‘Google it,’ was his. I prompted did and was sold.

After a few nights in Amritsar, the Mecca for adherents to the Sikh faith, and one in Jammu, I arrived in Srinagar, Kashmir. It was a pretty magical spot even in the dead of winter. The following day I hopped a series of buses and jeeps to arrive in Gulmarg ski village. I checked into a budget guesthouse and set off to find gear rental. I was lead to a shop with decent looking powder ski equipment. The owner advised me to return at the end of the day to avoid half-day charges. Instead of protest, I obliged.

I walked the icy mountain road dodging groups of skinny Kashmiri men pulling fat Indian suburbanites on primitive wooden sleds. With an overtly judgemental smile I declined a ride at frequent intervals. During the winter season the mountain meadow cum golf course assumes a third incarnation. A small hump serves as a bunny hill for groups of elated domestic tourists turning their tips downhill for their virgin ride. Most would collapse to one side before gaining anything that resembled momentum. Their smiles, at even the smallest hint of success, were fantastic.

Adjacent to the slope was government-run gear rental shop. I checked it out. In the back, behind no fewer than three separately locked doors, their premium equipment collected dust. I inspected the two rows of aged boots and a small rack of skis in need of a good wax job. I figured they would do the trick. I got totally outfitted (including a ski jacket embroidered with the Whistler Ski & Snowboard School crest) for 700 INR - $14 USD. I was pleased.

Preface: This journey was always likely to be the most grueling and uncertain segment of my envisioned itinerary. Bumpy roads aside, the security situation in the region is semi-stable at best. Target killings in the city of Quetta are rather frequent and there have been multiple incidents of Taliban insurgency along the Taftan – Quetta corridor in recent months. Although completing the Iran-India overland route was my dream, I set out from home with a mind open to alternatives. Adventure in the name of fun is exhilarating. Death in the name of adventure is just stupid. As my Iran visa approached its expiry date, I began heavy research into the trending security situation of Balouchistan province in southwestern Pakistan. I scoured travel blogs and security reports. The more I learned, the less rational it seemed to be traveling this route. I weighed options, researched viable alternatives, did some hard thinking, had a fortunate encounter and ultimately concluded that I would make the trip. I’m so glad I did.

Note: This post spans two calendar days: December 24th and 25th

The underground wedding reception hall was pitch black as I opened my eyes and lifted my head. I gathered my belongings and followed Dan (my new travel companion; a Kiwi who had just spent six months cycling the silk road through Central Asia) into the breaking day. It was 0600. We would begin our journey to Quetta, the capital of Balouchistan.

We had been put up by a couchsurfing host the previous night. It was a great way to enjoy a final cultural exchange in Iran and to avoid arousing the curiosity of the border town police.

We taxied to the Pakistan border-bound savari (shared taxi) stand. Our new driver knew the drill. He roped my pack to the top and shoved Dan’s bag in the trunk. It was 96 km to the border. Within only twenty kilometres the prevailing patience that we would require for the duration of our journey was first tested. We exited the cab and followed an Iranian checkpost policeman, currently holding our passports hostage, to a nearby trailer. He told us to wait outside the closed door. It felt a stark contrast to the local hospitality I had to come expect while traveling Iran. The persistent dichotomy was personaified. In his uniform, this man was of The State and not The People. Minutes later another man emerged and surrendered our passports. We were back on the road.

We unloaded at the border and paid our fare. There was a decent line up waiting to exit Iran – all men. We joined them, but were soon ushered through a vacant immigration station. I paused at the TV screen showing regional news in the waiting room. No reports of violence overnight in Pakistan.

Those of you who know me well know that I am not really ‘a planner’. Those of you who know me best know that I don’t exactly float directionless either.

My general philosophy breathes life into what the late Steve Jobs articulated in his Stanford convocation speech – make a bunch of dots and connect them at some point further along in life’s journey.

I have dreamt about traveling overland from Turkey to India for years. In early October I decided it was a good time to make good on this self promise.

I wanted to leave right away and within 3 weeks was set to depart November 1st.I plan to travel from Istanbul to the south of India overland crossing through Kurdistan (northern Iraq), Iran and Pakistan on the way.

Although the route I originally envisioned included a detour south through Syria to Lebanon before heading east, I will have to save those destinations for a time when greater regional peace is possible.

I’m going solo. I will admit that I had early apprehensions about not buddying up with someone for the trek, however I have chosen to embrace the positives that come with going it alone – doing whatever I want whenever I feel like it and being more approachable by local peoples instead of dwelling on the downsides of being a one-man-act – not having any one wingperson to share long bus rides and unique memories with and the added comfort knowing that someone always had your back.

The single biggest question most people have when they hear of my trip is whether or not this is a reasonably safe itinerary. My response is constant and valid – I love life way too much to put myself in uncalculated danger.

To back that up I’ve traveled a fair amount, have done some good preliminary research to understand the precursory risks associated with my routing and speak fluent Turkish, Kurdish, Farsi, Urdu and Hindi (not!).

When traveling, I always keep a personal, handwritten journal to document the fun. This time, I plan to share some stories with those not directly alongside me through this blog.

I’m happy to hear feedback on the content ie. more stories about the shitty days I will inevitably have diarrhea and fewer about me having a blast or vice versa. Also, if you’d like a postcard to spice up your fridge shoot me a message via email, facebook or twitter. I’ve already received a couple messages from random people asking me to send them one from Iran – so you won’t be alone in the request.